


Shines Through Darkness

by FoxxeWrites



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragons have human forms don't worry!, Eventual Smut, Kai/Yami, M/M, Minor Characters with Norsey Name Changes, Old Norse, Prideshipping, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-08 05:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16423592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxxeWrites/pseuds/FoxxeWrites
Summary: Pride shipping, multi-chapter. In the furthest reaches of the north, there lies a perilous place inhabited by dragons & dragon hunters alike named 'Dagrún.' Yami grew up there, building his reputation day-by-day as a dragon hunter extraordinaire. One fateful day, he makes the catch of a lifetime when the legendary white dragon they call 'Blue Eyes' stumbles into one of his traps. Yami's ecstasy quickly turns to confusion when the dragon's true colors— and shape— begin to shine through. Yami is forced to choose: stand by the way of life and potential lies he's always lived, or take a chance on the words of this mystical 'Seto?' Secrets unravel and with it, self-doubt. Yami must reconsider what makes a man, and what makes a monster.





	1. Out of the Blue

An ordinary man wouldn’t dare challenge the blizzard badlands of the north most mountains.

There’s no fault in the common sense of the common fellow; he’s within good reason, really.

These snow-smothered valleys and treacherous slopes are home to the most vicious breeds of wolf, bear, & fox known to man. Suppose some strapping young somebody was to overcome the terrain; all that would await them is getting mauled to smithereens in two, maybe three moons.

The standard someone wouldn’t survive even sans the flesh-eating fur balls.

For starters, the polar winds are a force so frostily formidable they could knock even the burliest of men down from off their feet. Next, while there’s never a shortage of snow, water itself is scarce. Waterways are sealed shut by bottomless cascades of ice, and with heaping mounds of snow atop them, no thirsty traveler could ever even locate them to begin with.

 The soil is barren; the trees, fruitless; and the forest, crawling with hook-toothed beasts and cold-blooded creatures. There’s no place on earth quite as desolate or dismal as this here rugged region.  

These craggy cliff faces must’ve been cursed into oblivion in the days of yore, forsaken by the gods to have become so perilous. Maybe they gifted these grisly lands to the most gruesome of fiends to divide them from the domain of man…? Either way, who’d be reckless enough to try and find out?

Only a madman would settle for a place like this to call their own!

 

…And madmen are exactly the kind of folk that dwell in Dagrún.

 

Complete and utter lunatics with balls broader than the ice caps that compile the land.

Dagrún is home to quaint, teensy thorps tucked away snug & safe amid fortifying enclosures of alps. The summits aren’t their sole means of security; they’ve fortress walls made from sturdy oak slabs strung together by poles and stone clumps. Beyond walled defenses, wooden-boarded walkways outline timber longhouses cramped together in clusters, each thatched roof mere inches from the next.

…Contrary to the expectations of the ordinary, people get by just fine.

They can melt down snow in iron cauldrons for water and upkeep rye fields, cabbage patches, as well as pea, onion, and mustard crops for food.  They can afford to keep goats for milk and butter without compromising their food supply, and they can hunt the many elk and rabbits that pitter-patter amok the brushland for their bushy fur hides. With a sharp enough spear and a keen spirit, they can even chisel their way through ice mass and fashion themselves a fishing hole.

… Actually, they do even better than fine. They do great, and especially well financially.

Of course, none of these boons came naturally to them. These blessings were the one fruit that no wintry whiplash could prevent from ripening; the bountiful fruits of their forefathers’ efforts.

Their forefathers were the most daring of men; hardly the common, nor sensible, kind. From just one look at a Dagrúnian, it’s plenty apparent that their predecessors had iron-studded balls they passed down to their stormy-eyed successors.

But their forefathers didn’t populate this place, build these walls, and sire their descendants because they were big-headed cock-fighters of nature. These thorps only blossom so prosperously on such infertile soil because of what their forefathers claimed it for. Moreover, there’s only one thing native to the Northern Mountains such ballsy people could’ve possibly stayed for. That is…?

 

Well, strapping young somebodies came, struggled, and somehow survived…

… but they stayed for the dragons.

For the people of Dagrún are not the ordinary kind of people.

**They’re dragon hunters.**

…

…

It’s early morning.

The sun plays peek-a-boo with mountain gaps like a toddler straining on their tip-toes. Its rays barely tickle the unyielding, towering thicket of pines, but the subsequent shade is of no hindrance to Yami. He’s fine and well so long as he can see both what awaits one step ahead and trails one step behind him.

He’s got Constantin, his family’s slothful silver-haired pony, trudging alongside him with a heavy-saddled sledge in tow. While the sluggish stallion tends to create more workloads than he puts out, he does earn his keep in their daily rounds. He’s troublesome all the while, though, requiring a fair few oat handfuls out of Yami to be dissuaded from horsing around.

Wary of the many twigs and sprigs that shower the snow-sheened forest floor, Yami steers Constantin by his elk-hide lead rope with a strong hand yet a tentative foot. This fickle-footedness is of habit, not precaution. Most predators around these parts are nocturnal, either that, or their instincts prevent them from prancing about the pines in the vulnerable visibility of day. Night’s their predation prime time.

As for the Dagrúnians, from the first stroke of dawn, their hunting hour commences.

…Dragon hunting, naturally.

A high-risk, high-reward trade.

Its hazards demand utmost aptitude and constant vigilance: horns; spikes; the impervious, impregnable scale hide; fangs; oh, and fire-breathing fits. However, with great risk comes even grander reward, and each of these downright dangerous draconic attributes rake in dough. Elite blacksmiths across the globe will pay a hefty fee for the claws, teeth, hide, or bones of a dragon that craft superior weaponry without equal.

There’s fame and glory in it for the more ambitious in this line of work, too.

Yami’s grandfather, Sigmund, was one such ambitious fellow. He and his scholarly sidekick, Artur, were revered as legends from coast to coast back in their day. They were, long before the focal point of their line of work caught up to old man Sigmund and took a sizable chunk out of him (literally). Although Sigmund is no longer regarded as the finest dragoneer of all Dagrún, Yami recounts him so.

Short stature aside, Yami has no one better to look up to.

Yami barely knew his father, his image of the family tapestry’s absentee stitched together by chop-bits of vague secondhand accounts. From what little he’d collected, Yami gathered the man had turned his back on their family for ‘greener pastures’ long ago. Back when Yami was but a wee, helpless tot cradled against his mother’s breast, too young and too unimpressionable to commit one nary thing to mind.

Yami managed to scrape together that much, but never why his father saw fit to just up and leave everything one day. Judging off the shallow curses his grandfather would spew into goblets of rye whiskey on late-nights, his father never saw family as much of anything to begin with.

Yami didn’t even know the man’s name. His elders would avoid it ardently, as though to say it would melt their tongues and rot them from out their mouths. To them, Yami grew to realize, it would.

He quit pushing it.

Yami’s mother never left of her own accord. A great and terrible sickness stole her away from them when Yami was barely tall enough to graze her thigh with his cheek.

He remembered her, though; forests grown rampant in emerald eyes and sparkling streams of firelight entwined in wispy hair. He never forgot. She lives on in the livelihood of Yami’s own two eyes.  

She was a strong one, Yami recalls. If her husband’s disappearance broke her heart, she never let it show on her scowling face. She wasted no tears on him, wasted only breath to bid him a string of swears so foul they’d make even the slimiest of sea-farers break a sweat.

After her untimely departure, it was up to Sigmund to care for the baby boys she left behind her.

…Through which he persevered. Her absence was lamented, but never felt as Sigmund was as exceptional a dragoneer as he was a grandfather. He’d humor the boys with tales of his epic misadventures and spoil them silly with honey-soaked desserts. He never returned from a day’s work without an expensive, exciting new toy for the boys to share, and he never left them lonely for long.

Yami could close his eyes and envision the old man’s visage just as it once was; his grandfather had been a plump stub of a man with wintry tussles for hair and a beard so magnificent that all the growing lads in their thorp had hoped to sprout one just like it. 

His grandfather’s catches were some of the most jaw-droppingly stupendous of his age. He’d offed all manner of dragons, from the necks of lowly cave crawlers to the heads of highly-prized, bejeweled castle creepers. His grandfather had lived unlike he died; a marvelous spectacle, with all eyes on him.

 Sigmund had set the standard for excellency in dragon hunting, but perhaps that put the old geezer too high up on his horse for his own good. Maybe what they say is true: hubris is the downfall of man.

… Then again, whoever said that has clearly never come across a blue eyes.

‘Blue eyes:’ the white dragon of the north, the fiercest, fastest dragon known to man.

Local legends rave they bleed topazes, cry pearls, and shed diamond scales. Some say when moonlight catches the priceless hide of a white dragon, auroras form bright enough to turn night to day.  Others claim the dragon’s fangs are platinum-plated and the size of a full-grown, well-built troll.

The white dragon— or as the Dagrúnians call it, the ‘blue eyes—’ has never been caught, although many’ve died trying. It’s a dragon best experienced from the comfy distance of storybook pages and nursery rhymes than in a nearby, ground-shaking roar, lest it be the last sound one lives to hear.

When hush hearsay of a blue eyes nesting nearby came to town, his grandfather declared to all those who’d stop to listen that he was going to make history: he was going be the first to catch one.

That day, Sigmund embarked on a dead man’s quest.

Every man in every tavern told Sigmund so… that a man’s luck is bound to run out eventually, and Sigmund need not tempt the spin of fate’s wheel well-off as he was. His grandfather could not be discouraged, though, and truth be told, little Yami never told him he ought to be.

In the mind of his naive prepubescent self, there wasn’t a dragon out there that his grandfather couldn’t trounce. Anyone who spoke to the contrary simply had too much beer bubbling in their bellies.

 His grandfather would be fine; after all, lady luck was on his side. Even if she were to turn her cheek on him at the last minute, he had many winters worth of wisdom to fall back on. So, Sigmund set off, horse, sacks, traps and all; if only Yami had known what lied ahead of him, he wouldn’t have let him go so easy.

For Sigmund might have caught dragons, yes, but he couldn’t cage a legend.

Many restless moons passed until Yami’s grandfather returned to them, missing an arm, both his legs, and a large portion of his pride. Yami and his brother tried their best to tend to him, but the damage done to his frame and name were irreversible. Sigmund could not be consoled, nor cared for.

The people that once exalted Sigmund’s victories now spoke only of his failures. Outcasted by their townspeople and ashamed beyond possible point of solace, disappointment dragged the old man down into his grave.

Yami was eleven when he and his twin brother, Yugi, were officially orphaned.

It’s been many winters since then.

Yami’s outgrown those boyhood blues and become an electric eighteen-year-old man; a ballsy one.

He saw how Sigmund lived for the praise of people, craved it, then withered without it. He saw the townspeople turn a blind eye on their ‘hero’ when he needed them most. Most days, scapegoating someone else was all Yami could do to make some semblance of peace with his grandfather’s demise. When he ran out of bystanders to blame, Yami belted up and packed his bags. He left the suffocating stockage of the thorp and traveled onward with Yugi, the sole sharer in his bereavement, at his side.

He established a homestead somewhere remote enough he and his brother could start again, a strip of unkept land far enough away that their grandfather’s ghost couldn’t follow in their footprints.

Suddenly, the air was fresher and lighter… or maybe they were. Who knew?

Then onward, Yami made a life for himself in par with his younger brother as dragon hunters.

He’s not in it for the fame, although he has it. Tavern-goers shout his name over the clinking of their tankards and the splashing of their barely brews. They’ve made a pastime out of gambling whether he’ll claim the title of the ‘King of Dragons’ or not, and most bet he will. As for the barmaids, they gossip and giggle how well he’s matured, if he’d be any good at pinning something suppler than a dragon beneath him.

He’s not in it for fortune, although he seeks it nobly with no thoughts of personal profit.  

He’s in it for his family. For Sigmund, to clear his sullied name, to carry out his legacy.

…But most of all, he’s in it for Yugi.

Little Yugi, who’s stood by him through thick and thin; his precious sibling, the only living family member Yami has left to his name.

Yugi, who worked long and hard at Yami’s side as his partner in trade for four long, trying years. They might’ve been a kooky couple of greenhorns at first as everyone is; but they worked in close tandem, watched each other’s backs, and confided their findings in one another to hone the skillset of their trade far faster than the average apprentice.

Through trial and error, they learned what methods were effective against dragons and which weren’t (for example, as it turns out, mortal battle cries are more amusing than alarming to most dragons). They learned which armor was truly heat-resistant, and which wasn’t (two burnt bums and several lawsuits later, that is). Yeah, they learned, alright…

As time went on, they discovered how best to combine Yami’s agility with Yugi’s perceptiveness to forge a force to be reckoned with out of themselves, even by their scaly soul-scouring opponents.

Together, they brought down dragons so massive they caused distant seas to shake and shudder when they came burning, crashing down into the ground.

Any fame Yami’s been allotted through the years, he owes to Yugi’s reassuring hand that was always there to catch his own in trials of insecurity. When one brother wore a courageous countenance, his counterpart would find the strength to match it; and that was their invincible trump card.

Together, they did more than earn a pretty sum off dragons; they made a thrilling game of them.    

 

…But those endearing escapades were cut short when Yugi fell sick.

He grew lithe, shedding what little muscle he’d built up chasing dragons by the tips of their tails.  He struggled to eat, paled, and slept more and more each day. What shook Yami wasn’t watching Yugi crumble from where he stood; it was watching him fall to shambles the same way their mother had.

The second born son most thorps ignored, Yugi had always tagged behind in Yami’s shadow since they were small. He’d been the frailer, softer, kinder of the two of them; traits the normal northern brute found appalling, to say the least. On the other hand, Yami was fierce, a born-fighter, and an ideal man in the eyes of all mountain men. No matter how unjust, they would upturn their noses at Yugi’s triumphs in favor of adulating and accrediting each fantastic feat to Yami, and Yami alone.

Alone, which Yami soon became.

When Yugi fell behind and vanished from Yami’s side on the flaming frontlines, not many took notice, they never had to begin with. But Yami did, and he felt the chilling sting of Yugi’s absence in each target he tackled without him. Hard as it was, Yami had to adapt and overcome his loss.  

Yami needs a profit, but he doesn’t need it for himself. He needs it so that one day, he might be able to afford the medication Yugi needs to get well… or else… or else… Yami hopes he’ll never find out.

 So Yami’s back at it again today, doing as he’s done a thousand times before.

He’s a heart skip away from his first checkpoint, his instincts already spiking up for a potential rough-patch. His shoulders hitch with tension, his breaths slow and steady, and his footsteps lighten as much as they possibly can when worn down by the heavy-weighted, steel-toed boots that keep him grounded.

Constantin snorts and shatters Yami’s stealthy silence, for which he shushes him sternly with a pinch applied directly to the pony’s inner-ear. Constantin whinnies indignantly, and Yami lowers his hand to block the horse by the chest, stilling him, then motioning for him to stay put with the quick swish of two fingers. He leaves the horse behind, a source of anxiety far greater than that of a potential dragon, and slowly approaches the trap.

The drumming of his heartbeat resounds within him like a war gong as he steps closer, each delicate footstep a booming firecracker in Yami’s overly self-conscious perception. His hand gravitates towards the knob of the concealed axe clipped against his belt, bracing himself for the battle that may or may not break out some steps ahead of him. He swallows, straightens his back, and in a flash, bolts forward.

 

… There’s nothing there.

 

He curses softly behind the ratty, knotted scarf that screens his gritted teeth.

Begrudgingly, he returns to Constantin and recovers him, then takes off and treks towards their next stop.

Yugi had long-since made Yami swear an oath to never take on a full-fledged dragon single-handed, no matter how his lion heart might long to. Dragon hunting expeditioners are not one-man bands. Tradition dictates dragon hunts be done in pairs, most commonly of blood relatives or long-time comrades for the insurance of loyalty. Yami honors those codes, as well as his promise to Yugi.

 Since Yugi’s health collapsed with no signs of letting up, Yami was forced to change course from waiting at Yugi’s bedside for him to recuperate to foraging the seaside for a new partner. Bold daredevil that Yami is, he’s a lone wolf at heart, and lacked the gall to approach anyone. He further avoided having to pitch the offer by nitpicking unreasonably at potential candidates.

Although his quest was plagued by some major— er— social drawbacks, he was far too stubborn to return home empty-handed. So, his search continued, hopeless as it seemed.

Eventually, it led him to a grubby little bay-side bar where he first met Jonun, a clumsy newbie thrown out for beseeching the big-shots to take him under their wing. Yami didn’t have to ask Jonun; the second he recognized Yami from the talk of taverns, he dropped to his knees and begged to be taught the ways of the hunters. Yami had journeyed far from home long enough, so he stopped his search there.

Yami soon learned that Jonun’s interest in the trade were roused by similar ambitions to Yami’s own, aiming to acquire the monetary means to cure his younger sister’s failing eyesight. However, like Yami, Jonun can’t leave his little sibling home alone for long, and he still needs a lot more practice before he’ll be anywhere near a seasoned professional. For that, despite their partnership, hunts for big game are infrequent in number, and income has dropped to an even lower digit.

He doesn’t have a choice, although he detests it.

Yami makes do with the traps.

The traps are plotted strategically throughout the borderline Feigur forest melds into dragon territory. The location is ideal as no deadly dragons nest nearby, but there’s no forest pests padding about, either. The traps consist of thin-threaded trip wires that, when triggered, set loose self-locking metal restraints. The free-falling binds are strung up directly overhead in the crooks of leaves in sky bound oak trees. At the base of the trap, there’s wooden planks that mark the spot, and crates and barrels of gamey lure.

Ingenious and innovative as they are, traps like these could capture only the dimmest of dragons. Regrettably, such scum-bred dragons hardly fetch a price worth their hassle, but even cash scraps are better than nothing when Yami needs them so direly.

If only Yami could trap a lame, defenseless dragon alive, there might be good money in it for him. Unfortunately, the chances a dragon worth its weight in gold won’t be able to fend for itself or stand its ground is just about as likely as Yami stumbling into one: impossible.

Regardless, Yami must work around his insufficiencies and settle for the traps.

Although he wishes he didn’t have to as he rips up and replaces the meaty bait of the sixth trap that turns up empty that day, swearing up a storm as he does so. Constantin’s eyes sparkle as he watches on from afar, his lips bunching around his bit all devilishly delighted. Clearly, it pleases the horse to be watching Yami hard at work he cannot help in.

More than Yami curses people, the gods, or even that damn Constantin— Yami curses dragons.

He curses them now as he makes way for the seventh and final trap, the sturdiest and most successful of them all. It’s been nothing but rotten luck all morning, but maybe the lucky number will turn the tides in his favor. He needs a catch… he hasn’t trapped a thing in a near half-month, and he’s desperate. Not enough to drop down on his knees and pray, but certainly enough to cross his fingers and hope to god.

Optimism is key, Yami tells himself, and soldiers on. Not a second later, that positive outlook is promptly put out when Constantin ‘accidentally’ missteps onto Yami’s foot.

Yami spins on his heel towards Constantin and readies the release of his many pent-up frustrations, but the expletives on the tip of his tongue are silenced by the churning in his gut that something’s amiss.

Yami’s hunches rarely come out false alarms, especially not on the move.

Several paces ahead of him, Yami’s eyes catch a hint of movement swirling against the snowy backdrop. Its source is ominously undetectable, causing both horse and man to stop dead in their tracks. Constantin remains ghostly quiet as Yami steps forward to scout their surroundings.

Where on earth did that come from…?

Yami squints, ruby-colored eyes scanning the horizon, but he just can’t pinpoint the origin of his uneasiness.  He waits and watches for a while, but the snow doesn’t stir again.

Just as Yami is about to call ‘coast clear,’ a heart-rattling, piercing cry cuts through the crisp mountain air and assaults his ear drums like the powerful pinpricks of a thousand teensy needles.

Yami’s gloved hands shoot to safeguard his ears as the ground quivers with aftershocks like the ripples left by stones skipped over water. In the blink of an eye, Constantin, a lazy lowlife who won’t trot even for a freshly-filled grain bucket, canters away at breakneck speed with the sledge dangling freely behind him. Constantin finds an ample oak and cowers behind it, beady black eyes budging out of their sockets and ears twitching tirelessly. Whatever this was, it was spooking the daylights out of poor Constantin.

Out of nowhere, snow kicks up in a great big wave the northern breeze sends tumbling straight towards Yami before he can bat an eyelash, much less think to dive aside.

Yami gasps soundlessly as he’s thrown down against the ground with all the power of a legion of raging oxen. His spine throbs and his nerves tingle at full-alert. His lips tremble as he shakes, his bruised body begging to keel over into a fetal position and wallow it off miserably against the ground.

Yami doesn’t even get the chance to try.

Constantin appears, snorting and sniffing all up in Yami’s face and smacking his cheek with his snotty snout. Yami tries to brush him aside, but Constantin won’t budge. Forced to get a grip, Yami seizes hold of one of Constantin’s legs and grapples against it to maneuver himself to his feet.  He leans against the crook of the pony’s neck, catching his breath then slowly inclining his head.

In a fluid motion, Yami’s mouth stretches into a graceless gape as his pupils dilate incredulously.

There, with its left wing caught in the spiked snare of a metal trap, a ‘blue eyes’ flails and flops aggressively against the snow. Its long, slender neck has this colossal grungy collar wound around it, a thin chain line swaying from it in sync with the dragon’s dodgy movements. Dingy metallic cuffs are clasped around both its front and hind legs, legs that swing about and twitch violently.

Azure-colored blood droplets sprinkle the snow below from the tear in the dragon’s wing that rips more and more with each of its beats of defiance, but that’s far from the only open wound that mars the dragon’s physique. Deep slices form narrow indentations in the dragon’s hide that ooze blue blood all along its silver figure.  From the looks of this dragon, somebody else got it good before Yami did.

Finders keepers.

No wonder Yami couldn’t make out the shape of the dragon against the snow; it’s pure white hide would camouflage it perfectly at a distance, if not for the metallic restrains and blood-embedded lacerations that give it away.  Yami’s not sure where this dragon came from, but he knows where it’s going.

To join its ancestors down below, where it belongs.

When it finally clicks in Yami that he’s really got a blue eyes bound before him and at his mercy, he’s positively livid. His fingertips clench around the grip of his axe as he swoops to unsheathe it from the folds of his tunic, his bright eyes dead-set on the dragon distracted by what forbids its flight. It’s yet to notice Yami, and the moment is right. Yami’s chest tightens with dastardly determination.

The white… dragon. The dragon that stole everything from him, the very reason his heart is iron enough to cut down those savage sky-farers so thoughtlessly, even when their blood soaks his shirt.

It killed his grandfather, orphaned him and his little brother when they were eleven-years-old. It’s the king of all beasts, the most monstrous of all menaces. For all Yami knew, this dragon could be the very one that took his grandfather down seven years ago. Even if it’s not, Yami thinks it no less guilty.

Now, seven years later, with the severed head of the blue eyes strapped to his sledge, Yami could avenge his grandfather and reestablish the dignity of their family name. It wasn’t as though Yami hadn’t spent years up until this point slaying dragons in lieu of the white one; how he’s longed for this chance…!

Rage more blinding than the arctic winds take hold of Yami as he lifts his axe, heaving furious breaths and stalking towards the unsuspecting dragon. Yami’s blood boils to hack at its pulse with ruthless swipes, ones so quick and cunning the dragon won’t even know what hit it before its head starts to roll.

He draws close, and there’s no turning back now.

The dragon’s collapsed from exerted exhaustion, its eyes sealed shut and its breaths soft and shallow. Its neck is right there waiting for Yami when he gets there, and as though a blessing from the beyond, there’s already an open wound exposing its vitals. Thanking his ancestors, Yami poises himself him and raises the axe high. Before he’ll swing it, he looks to the face of the dragon to recheck for opportune unawareness.

…Yami halts, because it’s looking right at him.

A great gust of air emanates from the dragon’s flaring nostrils and blows at Yami’s hair, ruffles it. Its eye is half Yami’s size and it’s big and blinking right in his face, staring him down and sizing him up. Those eyes are unnervingly unbothered, empty slates of perfect blue that watch him amusedly.

It snorts dismissively, and its eyes mock, ‘ _you really think that little toy of yours can defeat me? Try me_.’

Rattled, Yami’s accepts its challenge, chucking his axe down full-swing.

While it struck the skin where Yami aimed, it didn’t tear through like warm butter as he’d expected. Instead, the axe shakes all along the handle from the sheer force of the impactful blow, but the dragon doesn’t even flinch.

Something’s not right… Yami retracts the axe, inspects it, and finds the blade of the axe to be splintered and cracked. Perplexed, Yami’s face scrunches up. The skin beneath a dragon’s hide is soft and tender. His axe should’ve sawed through it as easily as hot water sifts through snow… so why didn’t it…?

There’s a strange rumbling that comes from the dragon’s open jaws, and it takes Yami a minute to piece together the dragon is laughing at him, its deep, dreadful voice rippling with arrogant mirth.

Yami’s eye twitches. He scowls, “well, aren’t you cocksure.”

Yami examines the dragon’s neck for any signs of separative success when something catches his eye about the blood that clings to the dragon’s cuts. It has a peculiar luster to it, and not the liquid-like kind.

Inhaling deeply, Yami gathers his courage and delves two fingers into the injury. Where the skin should be baby-soft and susceptible, it’s hard as rock. Yami continues drumming his fingertips against the wound when it hits him right between the eyes: the dragon’s blood has crystallized, and not just in texture.

There’s a stocky layer of dazzling topaz overlaying its injuries, a defensive one that’s not there for show.

Yami’s hand drops to his side as dead-weight, his jaw falling open all on its own. Unbelievable— does that mean all those fairy tales Sigmund used to read him to sleep in his childhood weren’t mere poetic pretties? Its scales, diamond, and its tears, pearls…? If so, then one wouldn’t need the dragon’s head to be set for life! Furthermore, those same fairy tales said, ‘the heart of a white dragon has the power to cure any illness and even restore lost life.’ If that’s true… if that’s true… then Yugi—!

“Change of plans,” Yami says through a sinister smile, “you’re coming with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > ***Thorp-** An archaic, old Norse way of referring to a village or hamlet.
>> 
>> ***Dagrún-** ( _DAH • GRU • UN _) From the old Norse name, derived from the components “dagr,” meaning "day," and “rún,” meaning "secret lore." This name is to be understood to mean, “an unknown tradition preformed at day.” In the context of this story, not only is the word “Dagrún” reminiscent of “dragon,” its meaning riddles out the settlers’ profession as dragon hunters. Dagrúnian is an extension of this word meant refer to a settler of Dagrún.__
>> 
>> ***Feigur-** From the old Norse adjective meaning, “doomed to die,” or “death-bound.” Feigur forest is to be understood to mean “death bound” forest. In context of this story, its name refers to the local hazards that “dooms one to die.” 
> 
> **Essential Credits:**
>
>> Chapter Artwork by **Chromamancer [** _https://www.deviantart.com/chromamancer_ **].** Check the link for more dragons! He offers prints **[** _https://www.deviantart.com/chromamancer/art/Zephyrus-213181080?purchase=print_ **]** , too!
>> 
>> Text divider by **Alex Engel [** _https://forum.yoyogames.com/index.php?members/alexandrowich.2361/_ **]**
> 
> **Disclaimer:** No plot device ponies, harmless grandpas, nor bratty dragons were harmed in the making of this chapter. 
> 
> **Yes,** you should absolutely leave a comment, kudos, and bookmark this fic. I really look forward to your feedback! 
> 
> Thank you for reading! 


	2. Dragooning a Dragon

**[** This chapter is temporarily down for maintenance. It should be back up again soon, please be patient. ★ **]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > *** Kaka-** The modern term ‘cake’ claims its roots in this old Norse word. It refers to, “a rich, sweet dessert food; typically made of flour, sugar, eggs; (then) baked in an oven, (later) covered in icing.” 
>> 
>> *** Draugr-** In simplest terms, this word refers to the old Norse folklore equivalent of a zombie. The roots in this word best combine to mean, “one who returns from the realm of the dead.” In legend, Draugr often start off fallen warriors of battle that revive as undead entities driven to guard their respective treasures or wrap up unfinished business and exact revenge upon a foe. Like most modern adaptations, they were depicted to eat flesh, but also drink blood of the living. 
>> 
>> *** Valhalla-** In old Norse mythology, there are several realms that comprise the afterlife and no single, universal ‘afterlife.’ Valhalla refers to the one owned by Odin, the god of all gods. A sacred “hall of warriors,” it rests in the holy land of the gods. Supposedly, those who died glorious deaths or did great deeds could grant entry to this realm where, as spirits, they could drink and battle to their heart’s content. It was perceived as a favorable, coveted afterlife. 
>> 
>> *** Kykvendi Keep-** The remote home of Yugi and Yami. The old Norse word attached here means, “animal, beast, (or) living creature(s).” Plain as can be, the brothers named their home very bluntly “the beast keep.” 
> 
>    
>  **Essential Credits:**
>
>> Chapter Artwork by **Gianni Fuchs [** _https://www.artstation.com/giannifuchs_ **].**
>> 
>> Text divider by **Alex Engel [** _https://forum.yoyogames.com/index.php?members/alexandrowich.2361/_ **]**
> 
>    
>  **Chapter 01 Update Notes: [** _24.11.2018_ **]**
>
>> Chapter artwork has been replaced with a new, more suitable image. A work skin has been added to crop the images more compatibly across different devices; this CSS will continue to be patched and perfected from now on.
>> 
>> Typo correction sweep, minor fixes. Chapter closing has been modified only slightly: word choice adjusted, sentences restructured to gloss over and less graphically detail the violence. There’s no need to reread, as there’s no major changes.  
> 
> 
> If you haven’t yet already, you should most certainly hit that kudos button, bookmark this fic for safekeeping, and leave a comment to let me know what you think! I love receiving feedback and can’t wait to hear your input.
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> 


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